


secrets dont make friends (so this is where it ends)

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Secrets, Some Fluff, Some Humor, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, some things went wrong. A lot of things.</p><p>Now Clarke's down a whiskey bottle or two, several pairs of socks, and a John Murphy.</p><p>And her sanity, probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	secrets dont make friends (so this is where it ends)

**Author's Note:**

> ~If you've just come across this series, I highly recommend reading the works that come before. They're relatively short, no worries. Also, thank you!~
> 
> And to the folks who're caught up, enjoy. Or don't. I can't tell you what to do.
> 
> This one is super fluffy and not sad at all! No sadness whatsoever! None! Such a happy installment!

**NOTE: Part of this installment, unlike the others, will be written from Murphy’s POV.**

-

“Clarke, you about done in there?” He asked from behind the door at which the light peeked through the gap above the wooden floor.

“Why are you awake, Murphy? It’s the middle of the night!” Clarke called, knocking over what sounded like a shampoo bottle, and Murphy sighed, bending his knees and squatting shallowly to do a little Hold-It dance.

“I have to pee, just like you apparently!” He had rolled over in bed to the sudden urge and tiptoed down the hallway to find that Clarke was not on the couch, but using the bathroom.

For the past two weeks she had been on this perfect bathroom schedule, while Murphy’s body just didn’t function like a clock.

The thing that irritated him most about these occurrences was that Clarke was much less patient with him. If he needed to go while the restroom was ‘ocupado’ Clarke often snapped at him, and many times she just refused to come out and he’d have to take his chances with an empty liquor bottle. He protested adamantly venturing outside to take care of his business. Not in the dark. Absolutely not.

However, Clarke had recently happened upon one of these now a bit less empty bottles which he had forgotten to throw into the woods come morning, and she was not happy about it in the slightest.

This last month had been difficult. Murphy wondered if her implant had worn off and this was her menstruation month or whatever. That could be it, right? Were they supposed to last this long? He kept making her food, because, for one, it was fun, he enjoyed cooking, and two, he explained to her that bleeding where you’re supposed to pee from seems like a strenuous, stressful task that would make one hungry, right? She smacked the plate out of his hand at that, and he just petted her hair, because that’s okay, she’s going through a lot right now.

Then, as soon as morning came ‘round, she was back to her normal uptight but very loving princess self. He guessed the lady stuff only happened at night, then?

That meant a lot to him. Oh, no, not the lady stuff- the loving stuff. She was always caring for him, holding him close, doing things for him. He liked being taken care of. She crawled into bed with him when it stormed too loudly. She draped a blanket over his shoulders when the bunker was particularly cold, combed his hair for him when he sat with a bedhead at the bar every morning. She brought him water and wiped his face when he woke up from night terrors in a cold sweat. She looked out for him, and she encouraged him. It was the little things. She’d say stuff like, “Murphy, you look very nice today.” Or, “Murphy, thank you for making lunch again, you’re a great cook.” Sometimes even, “Murphy, you picked a great CD, I like your taste in music.” And occasionally she’d say something like, “Murphy, I do like being here with you, you know.”

He didn’t know, but it was nice to hear every once in a while.

He liked taking care of Clarke, too.

He liked letting her beat him in pool, yes, he _was_ letting her win, thank you very much. He liked being dragged up to the lookout to watch the sunset, but the sun wasn’t the glowing thing his eyes were usually on. He liked making her meals and he liked carrying her to bed when she was just too drunk to function, the lightweight. He didn’t mind spending twenty minutes picking loose golden hairs off of the sofa and he didn’t mind cleaning the bunker while she watched movies. He didn't even mind getting the clean clothes and washing the dirty ones when she was just too tired to be bothered. He didn’t mind it at all.

In fact, in the morning, he would do just that. Maybe he'd even clean the bathroom she was currently hogging.

Speaking of which.

“I’ll just get a bottle.“

“No! Murphy, just, one second, I’m almost done!“

“Take your time, I know that lady stuff is pr-“

“It’s not lady stuff, damn it Murphy!”

“In that case, hurry up. I’ve got to go _now._ ”

There was a lot of banging around, shutting and opening of cabinets, and Clarke stumbled out eventually, swinging the door open and bumping into Murphy’s chest face first. She put a hand out to steady herself, looking nervous.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked, tilting his head and bending down to get eye level with her.

Clarke nodded quickly, waving him off. “What are you talking about? I’m fine, just, stood up too fast, dizzy is all.”

Murphy’s face lost all color, and his eyes grew wide. “You’re pregnant aren’t you?”

Clarke was taken aback, mouth hanging open.

“What?! I just said I was dizzy! That doesn’t mean-“

“We didn’t even sleep together! Oh no, was it-“

“ _Murphy!”_

“I can’t raise _a kid!_ The Murphy’s aren’t very good at that and, oh _God_ , your mom's going to-“

“Murphy, _stop!”_ Clarke slapped a hand over his mouth to silence him. “I am _not_ pregnant. I’ve just got a, you know, I- okay, fine, you were right. It’s lady stuff. It’s all good.” Clarke said, rolling her eyes with a sigh.

Murphy clapped a hand over his heart, sucking in a deep breath, very dramatically. To express his concern. Also she smelled nice.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” She grunted, slipping past him. “Uh- yeah, so, hurry back to bed. You’re a louder urinate-er.“

“Strong jets.” Murphy said confidently, and Clarke pressed two fingers to her temples, massaging them.

“Just hurry up.”

-

In the morning, Murphy rolled over in bed, finding Clarke curled up at the foot of it. He smiled fondly, slipping out from under the covers slowly, stumbling through his sleepy vision and wobbly legs.

“Good morning.” He whispered, leaning over her to pull her golden hair out of its tight ponytail from the day before. He snapped the rubber band around his wrist, draped a blanket over her and headed off to the main room to let her sleep.

He knew it was unusual for him to be so kind and gentle, so… what’s the word? Nice?

But after drowning in the mindset that everything you touch will surely die, it’s quite a feeling to see something thrive under your hand.

That thing was Clarke.

He’d do anything for her. He owed her that much, for accepting him, caring for him. For treating him like a human with a heart that beat properly and bled just as heavily with every jab as that of another.

For staying.

He owed her.

He crept up the stairs and shoved the oversized bunker door open, and harsh sunlight bit through his skin. Squinting, he spotted their hopefully dried clothes pinned down on a blanket by heavy rocks, and made his way over.

“If anyone’s out here and wants to kill me, just let me get these clothes inside first.” Murphy mumbled, as he usually did. It seemed to be working thus far.

He squatted down and rolled the stones off of each article of clothing, cringing when he had to pick up Clarke’s old bra and underwear.

Grunting, arms full with a heap of clean clothes, he stood up and turned back towards the bunker just up the hill. He couldn't see where he’s going from behind the pile of clothes, but he's pretty sure he’s got it. Clarke keeps telling him to take two trips but he’s not that weak, clearly, he can handle this. Except when he can’t.

He shouts out in pain when something very sharp and very hot, and a little wet, collapses under his foot and then climbs into his skin.

A pee bottle.

Murphy kind of wants to cry.

-

“Look, God, I know I killed some people and stuff but don’t you think this is just a little cruel?” He shouts at the sky, which remains stoic after his outburst. Face red with anger or shame or both, he trudges through the sand, collecting as many infections as one can, apparently. "This is disgusting." He grumbles, shuffling over leaves and barreling through reaching branches.

He nudges the door open and stands at the top of the steps, frowning and cussing and thinking. Mostly cussing. He could walk through and leave a trail of various bodily fluids on the floor, or-

So Murphy throws the clothes to the bottom of the steps with little to no grace, aside from the socks. He layers every last pair over his screaming feet, (not literally, feet don’t usually scream) and begins to tiptoe down the stairs, heading for the bathroom. Inside, he peels off the bloody socks and cusses.

Oh, does he cuss. For about five solid, uninterrupted minutes he does.

Crawling towards the shower, Murphy’s flipping off an innocent bar of soap when there’s an unfamiliar noise.

It’s a crackling sound, and he strains to find the source.

Murphy digs through the cabinets, getting warmer as the sound grows nearer. “What the hell is that?” He growls, and then he touches something in the drawer labelled first-aid that’s much larger than a box of bandages or a bottle of pills. He wraps his hands around the edge of it and pulls it into the light, ghosting his hands over the surface. A radio.

It crackles with static again, and he turns it over and over in his hands. Did it have surgical tutorials recorded on it somewhere? Why was it in the first-aid drawer?

He turns a small knob so slightly that you’d miss it if you blinked, and the crackling sound roars to life, even louder than before. Murphy fumbles with the radio in a panic to silence it, twists the knob the other way, and as it quiets down at last he pants out, “What the-“.  
  
“Clarke, come in. Clarke-“

Murphy freezes and a chill runs down his body at the sound of someone else’s voice. He places the radio on the floor not-so-gently and backs away from it, only stopping when his shoulder blades are digging into the wall. The voice was distorted, and if it was coming from someone back at camp, the radio would have to have an incredible range. Oh, right. Pre-apocalypse stuff. High-tech. Rich guy. Had weapons of mass destruction.

“Clarke, do you read? Come in, Clarke.”

It couldn’t be. Murphy crawls to the radio, feeling the sticky warmth of his own blood on the floor soak through his pants and dampen his knees. He feels sick.

“Bellamy?”

After a beat, the silence coming from the other side of the radio is torn.

“Murphy?”

-

**NOTE: Clarke’s POV begins here.**

You see, Murphy usually woke Clarke up. She had been so busy with the radio for the last two weeks she had hardly gotten a wink of sleep. So she slept, and she slept, and she slept. And nobody had woken her. So she stumbled out of bed, clueless, and decided to make breakfast while Murphy slept in. In her mind, she had gotten up bright and early. Except when she brought a crusty MRE pastry on a silver platter to her Sleeping Beauty, he was not on the couch. He was nowhere in sight.

So that’s how she found him. Sitting with bloody feet in an empty bathtub, polishing off a bottle of whiskey.

“Oh, hello Clarke. Nice of you to join us.” He sneered, waving the bottle like a club and spilling what little was left inside on his shirt. He groaned at that, slamming his head into the wall behind him.

“Us?”

“Hi Clarke.” The radio buzzed, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

She had a better hiding place and she could’ve turned down the volume but he was rushing her last night, and-

Oh, God no.

“Murphy, please, I can explain I-“

“Hey,” he slurred, “it’s fine! Don’t even worry about it! It's not like you lied to my face and have been planning on leaving or anything! Right?”

“He’s mad.” Bellamy said, well, crackled.

"Thanks, Bellamy." Clarke grumbled. That was very Finn of him.

His deep voice rang out through the walkie again. "Murphy, listen, we really needed Clarke's help with the-"

“Oh, so now the talking cheese is gonna preach to us.” Murphy quoted, scowling, and Bellamy sighed from the other end of the line.

“He’s a little drunk, Bellamy.” Clarke said, pushing down the toilet lid and sitting.

“I figured.”

“Am not, assholes.” Murphy growled, and then it turned into a laugh. A very scary laugh, at that. He brushed his disheveled hair back and crossed his legs.

He was covered in blood and liquor, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He looked utterly pathetic.

“Murphy, let’s get you cleaned up. Tell Bellamy goodbye. We’ll talk about this later.” Clarke cooed, as if speaking to a child. He was a ticking time bomb.

“You get yourself cleaned up!” He yelled, standing up shakily and jabbing a weak finger at her shoulder.

He climbed out of the tub, dropping the bottle into the sink and stumbling across the bathroom.

Clarke snatched the radio out of his hands and shoved it behind her back, grabbing his arms and tugging him towards the tub. “Murphy, you’re going to take a bath. Then we'll talk about it, okay?”

She looked at him as he pushed past her, headed for the door.

“Murphy!” She yelled, pulling him back, when he spun around and shoved her away. Hard.

She stumbled back and consequently hit the side of her head on the overhead cabinet. She lifted a hand to her temple and brought it away, a vibrant red coating her fingertips. Blood dripped to the floor. When she looked up, horror flashed across his face, eyes wide. He was the physical embodiment of fear.

He looked down at his hands, and then up at Clarke again.

And he ran.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I lied.
> 
> I sincerely hope this installment ripped our your heart, body-slammed it and then elbowed it in the throat.
> 
> Sorry to leave you hanging. Like John Murphy did from a tree! ...What? Too soon? 
> 
> I'd sell my soul for a kudos and a comment letting me know how you feel, and of course, your favorite (or least favorite) part. I feed off of it. Thank you for reading. I love you!


End file.
